Rogue Touch Read online

  It turned out Cody’s memory also gave me the strength to yell at James, when I saw him waiting in line along with all the other wretches. At least I suspect that’s what did it. I can’t think how I would have got up the nerve otherwise.

  “Hey,” I yelled, the second I recognized him. “El Creepo!”

  The two of us stood in different lines, but he caught my eye immediately because other than me, he was the only one dressed for a cold winter day. What I mainly noticed was that long, black leather coat. When I called out his name—or my name for him, anyway—he turned around and looked at me right away. But then, so did everyone else in the welfare office.

  By now he was standing about five feet away, and just as I’d thought, his eyes were piercing, stunning, electric blue. But all I could think was how he’d ratted me out. I got out of line to march over to him and demand why he’d thought to tell Wendy Lee I’d been casing Maybelline’s store. When he realized I was coming toward him, he looked around, maybe hoping to identify someone else who could be my target.

  “No way, mister,” I said. “I’m talking to you!”

  He turned and ran. For a second I felt bad about him losing his place in line. Then I remembered I’d lost mine, too. I ran after him.

  As James ran, his long coat fluttered behind him, and a bunch of papers fell to the ground. I stopped chasing him long enough to stoop and pick up what he’d dropped. It was an envelope stuffed with different driver’s licenses and pay stubs and canceled rent checks. In other words, it was everything you’d need to scam your way into getting food stamps.

  By now a guard had decided to make us his business. He walked over to me, and when he saw what I was holding, he yelled out for someone to stop James. Another guard, who was standing by the door, grabbed his arm just before he left the building. I could tell my guard was about to grab me, too. I dropped all the phony paperwork so he’d have to stoop to pick it up instead. By the time he righted himself, and I hadn’t run, he figured I’d stay where I was without being touched.

  Two guards dragged James over to where I stood. He looked out at me from under long, straggly, yet kind of sexy hair—those blue, blue eyes staring right at me. I saw that his cheeks were sunken in. He looked hungry. Seriously hungry.

  Still I couldn’t help but ask him. “Why?” I said. “Why’d you tell Wendy Lee I wanted to rob Maybelline?”

  He just stared back, not saying a word.

  “Do you know this man?” my guard asked me.

  I shook my head. The guards yanked him away. I felt a powerful rush of shame, that somebody would keep on going hungry because of me. Then I did the only thing I could think of, which was get back in line to get my own damn food stamps.

  That night felt like old times, except for the fact that I decked myself out in all the necessary protection. I knew they wouldn’t have brought El Creepo to jail, because he hadn’t got so far as putting those documents to work. They would’ve just shown him the door and told him not to bother coming back. Don’t ask me how, but I felt very certain that he’d be right where I last saw him: lurking in the doorway of Maybelline’s Collectibles.

  I walked down the dark, empty streets, wishing I was heading to my old job baking breakfast pastries. And while I was at it—wishing, that is—I wished that Cody was not only up and around, but walking beside me. Tomorrow I’d have to go by the library and use the computer—see if I could find any news of him in the Caldecott County paper. For all I knew, maybe he had woken up.

  But really, I knew it in my heart. Cody hadn’t woken up from his coma. Most likely he never would.

  A few minutes later I stood in the doorway of Maybelline’s. Could she possibly have sold all those silly little purses? In their place was a display of hand-painted mirrors in different sizes. One was a wide, square mirror, with a pretty aquamarine frame. It looked like it went over a bathroom sink, but Maybelline had it leaning low down enough that I could pretty much see my entire freakish self. I didn’t have time to feel the usual dismay over this sight, though, because within seconds I also saw the reflection of El Creepo. He stood behind me, his long hair and long coat flowing behind him, his face pale and hungry, his eyes blue as an arctic wolf’s.

  Well, I thought, staring at that reflection. At least I know he’s not a vampire.

  He reached out to touch my shoulder, and I ducked out from under his hand. Even with a turtleneck and leather jacket, I didn’t want to take any chances.

  “I wasn’t going to hurt you,” he said. Little did he know.

  He sounded like he came from far away, definitely not anywhere south, maybe not even anywhere in the U.S., plus his voice was husky and out of breath, like he’d run here. Not only that, but he looked at me like pretty much nobody had ever looked at me before. Which is to say he looked at me in a way that made me feel stark naked.

  I took another step back, reached into my pocket, and pulled out a bunch of food stamps. I held them out to him without saying anything. To be perfectly honest, my throat had gone kind of dry. He just blinked, staring down at my white-gloved hand like he couldn’t imagine what exactly I was offering him.

  “What’s that?” he asked. “Your currency?”

  “Currency?” I said, finally finding my voice. I wondered if that trace of otherness I heard when he spoke meant he came from a different country. “It’s not currency. It’s food stamps. SNAP? What you almost got arrested trying to scam?”

  “Ah,” he said, still looking down at my hand. “This is what I use to get food?”

  “Yeah,” I said slowly. “You go into a grocery store and you use it to buy food. Not all food. I mean, there are rules. Like, you can’t buy prepared food.” I realized I was rambling. “Look,” I said. “How come you were all ready to risk fraud charges if you don’t even know what these things are?”

  He didn’t answer my question, just reached out so he could take the food stamps. I could feel the tips of his fingers skim the fabric of my gloves. What marked him as different—one of the things, anyway, they certainly did seem to be mounting—was the fact that he didn’t ask me about being so bundled up. He didn’t even look at me like he thought it was strange. But then, he was dressed like winter was coming, too.

  He stuffed the food stamps into the pocket of his coat. “Do you know,” he asked, “if there are any food stores open at this hour?”

  “Well,” I said, wishing I’d at least thought to bring him a banana or something. It was getting a little clearer to me why he’d been loitering outside a bakery. Despite being so unusual, and apparently starving to death, there was something kind of elegant about James. I hated to think of him Dumpster diving. “It’s a pretty sleepy town,” I told him. “But there’s a Kroger that I think stays open. It’s over on I-55 near Northside…”

  Before I could even finish talking, he had turned and started walking up the street. “Hey!” I said. “Can you let a lady finish talking?” He turned around and looked at me. His face had gone a little softer, and I didn’t feel quite so naked. Plus, I felt glad I’d decided on helping him, though why exactly I couldn’t say.

  He waited for me to speak, and I realized I didn’t know what to do. Ask him how he planned to get out to I-55 without a car? Or why he was so damn hungry? Instead I said, “What’s your name?”

  “James,” he said. He had a quiet, almost gentlemanly voice. This guy might’ve been strange, but suddenly I saw nothing creepy about him.

  “James,” I said. “I’m Anna Marie.”

  “I know,” he said.

  Well! That kept me quiet a minute. I stood there, gathering back my breath, ready to ask him how the hell he knew my name, when he said, “I didn’t tell her I saw you. I never spoke to this Wendy Lee. But I’m sorry you got fired.”

  And then he turned and walked away, leaving me gaping after him, that crazy coat billowing like something from the nineteenth century, from a time where mystery and mist were every bit as common as Mississippi sunshine.

  Aft
er James walked away, I lurked awhile in Maybelline’s doorway myself. At this point it didn’t matter if they thought I meant to rob the place, so I figured I could wait and see my replacement at the bakery. To my surprise Wendy Lee had hired a huge, bald man whose tattoos I could see even in the dim streetlights. If you ask me he looked as much like a criminal as I did, but there wasn’t much I could do about that except go home and sleep. But I couldn’t sleep. I had this feeling, this weird excited feeling. Like something was about to happen.

  After a while I got out of bed, pulled out a plain, lined piece of paper from my old school notebook, and sat down at my folding card table. Dear Mr. and Mrs. Robbins, I wrote.

  I stayed up working on that letter for more than an hour. Then I stuffed it into an envelope, stamped it, and wrote out the address I knew by heart. Tomorrow I would do what I’d done about four times since I’d run away to Jackson. I’d take the bus. Each time I took the bus to a different town, and I decided that tomorrow I’d go all the way out to Vicksburg. Then in the Vicksburg bus station I’d sneak onto another bus, bound for someplace far away, like New York City or Gainesville, Florida. Back when I was a regular girl in Caldecott County, Mississippi, I used to dream of going to those places myself. I had maps tacked to my bedroom wall and an old out-of-date atlas I’d bought at the used bookstore in Dodson.

  So far I hadn’t been able to bring myself to leave my home state, and tomorrow wouldn’t be any different. I wouldn’t stay on the bus; I’d just leave my letter on one of those seats, hoping a traveler would find it and mail it once she got to her final destination.

  Not that I’d signed the letter. But the Robbinses were sure to know who had written it. Who else would know so many of Cody’s memories, not to mention how much he’d loved his mama and daddy? I couldn’t risk a letter postmarked Jackson. Because the main thing I knew, other than that I had to write these letters, was that I sure couldn’t run the risk of anybody finding me.

  Aunt Carrie always said I had it in me to be evil. I didn’t used to believe it. But now I couldn’t be sure. Actually, it’s not true that she always said I was evil. My earliest memories of her get all mixed up with what I have of Mama. The two of them used to be like two peas in a pod, with flowers in their hair, giggling in the tall grass down by the banks of the Bayou Pelage. They’d take me walking by the bayou, and I’d stand on the banks while they waded in the thick black water looking for nun’s orchids, neither of them a bit scared of the gators or water moccasins. Back then Aunt Carrie was a hippy, bless her heart, just like Mama. She and Mama even looked alike, with blond hair and blue eyes and bright, sunshiney smiles. Nothing like me, all dark and glowery. I must favor my daddy, though I can’t say I remember much about him, and I never did see a picture. The only thing I know for certain is that his name was Conrad. I looked up that name on the Internet one time and found out it means “brave,” so that’s always how I think of him. Brave.

  After we lost Mama, Aunt Carrie changed. She left the commune and took me back to the family farm. It wasn’t easy for her. By the time I ran away, she was teetering on the brink of foreclosure with the rest of the state of Mississippi. When I’m feeling charitable, I think she was just scared I’d turn out like Mama—freethinking and wild, and then one day gone. So she always kept a close, strict eye on me, and never was shy about using the belt when she thought it was needed. “Anna Marie,” she would say. “You go fetch that belt. I’m gonna beat the evil clean out of you.”

  I guess she didn’t beat me hard enough.

  The morning after I gave James the food stamps, I woke up with a funny kind of Christmas feeling. But it only took three steps across the room and a glance in my mini-refrigerator to get me worrying again. When I opened the door, all I saw was what I didn’t have. No coffee, or eggs, or anything besides a skinny pint container of milk with one little swirl of sour liquid. I slammed the door shut and sat down on the rickety wicker chair I’d found out by somebody’s Dumpster. My window was pushed all the way open, but nothing even slightly like a cool breeze came through it, just hot air so thick I could have caught it in a jar and grown mushrooms.

  Down on the street, all kinds of people walked along wearing summer clothes. Young mamas held on to their children’s hands. Middle-aged women walked in high heels and crinkly skirts, like they had someone to meet. I imagined them arriving at a restaurant and giving their friend a hug before they sat down to order their fancy eggs. Cody’s mom used to make eggs over easy with vinegar sauce.

  Mrs. Robbins liked me. In fact she was the last person on Earth to kiss my cheek. I walked through the door of her kitchen, and she kissed me and said, “Did you have any breakfast, Anna Marie?” She knew I’d say no even if I already had, I loved those vinegar eggs she made so much. The best part was the toast, soaked through with the egg yolk and vinegar and butter. I always closed my eyes when I went in for that first bite.

  Still standing by the window, I felt my stomach turn over hungrily. I had food stamps of my own stuffed into my wallet, not many on account of the ones I’d given James, but enough to get me through the week if I just got pasta, maybe a carton of eggs.

  On the other hand, maybe I could just stay here in my apartment. Stop eating altogether. I wondered how many days it took for a person to starve to death. One thing I knew for sure, nobody would come knocking on my door till the rent came due. That was two weeks from now, and I hadn’t any idea how I’d make it. So what if I just gave up? Hopefully the danger I posed to others, to everyone, would die along with me.

  A little gasp formed in my throat and burst out of my lips. I shook my head and moved out of the window so nobody would see me. I needed food. I needed money. I’d have to go to the library and look on craigslist to see about a job. So I started pulling on the hot, hateful clothes that kept the world safe from me.

  What is it that drives a person to survive, even when she has nothing to live for?

  At the Eudora Welty Library I felt pleased to see it was a slow day, with several computers available. On craigslist I found some openings at Jaco’s Tacos and the Mermaid Café, but all during daytime shifts. Back in Caldecott I’d worked summers and after school waiting tables at Bette’s Diner, and I remembered how often people would reach out to tap me, or even grab my wrist. Obviously that wouldn’t work now.

  I clicked over to the Caldecott County Record website and typed “Cody Robbins” in their search line. Three old articles came up. I’d already read all of them. Surely the newspaper would’ve reported it if he’d woken up; there wasn’t exactly a lot of big news in that sleepy bayou town. In fact probably the biggest news that had ever happened was when Cody Robbins—the star pitcher of the high school baseball team—fell down beside the banks of the Mississippi River and never got up again.

  That fateful day, after I ate the eggs his mama made me, Cody and I went for a walk. It wasn’t far from his house to the Mississippi River; he and I had taken that walk plenty of times before. Not that he was my boyfriend. Not exactly, anyway, even though he’d given me a ring with my birthstone—a tiny little amethyst—the Christmas before. The two of us had been running around together since we were itty bitty. Everyone—Aunt Carrie, Mr. and Mrs. Robbins, even Cody and me—thought of the two of us just as pals. Which didn’t mean I hadn’t been a little bit in love with him for quite some time.

  Cody and I walked down toward the river, way out of sight from his house and everyone in it. Out of sight of everyone in Caldecott County. Just Cody and me, on a perfect autumn day, the sun high in the sky, the tiniest nip of chilly in the air. We talked about silly things, like baseball, and the kittens that Aunt Carrie’s barn cat had the day before, and Shelby Zimmerman’s new haircut. After a while we found ourselves underneath a tupelo tree, its bright red leaves swinging above us and hanging around us, so that someone looking our way might only see two pairs of legs, one wearing jeans and one bare under a short, frilly skirt.

  Cody was so lanky that even a tall girl like me had
to stand on her tiptoes to reach his lips. I put my hands on his shoulders and gave him a big old kiss. He didn’t seem surprised at all, and he sure didn’t complain. He just put his hands on my hips and kissed me back, and for a full minute, maybe more, the whole world was perfect.

  And then, suddenly, the world was as imperfect as it would ever get, and far as I could see, it wasn’t ever turning back.

  All the way to the hospital I stared at my reflection with the new, white streaks in my hair. “It must be from the shock,” Mrs. Robbins said, in the one second she took to notice. I didn’t care a bit about my hair, I just prayed this wasn’t my fault. That it was a crazy coincidence that he started convulsing right when we were kissing. But even while I prayed, a part of me knew. I’d felt a kind of convulsion, too, felt Cody’s whole self rushing out of him and into me. In that moment before he hit the ground, I hardly even realized he’d fallen because the sensation was so intense. For a second I had sucked it all in, like a wolf sucking the marrow out of a deer’s bone. Greedy. When I came to my senses and ran back to the house for help, I covered the distance not with my own speed, but Cody’s. I could remember a thousand bases beneath my feet, and the thud of my cleats sliding into home plate.

  “Did anything unusual happen,” the doctor asked me, when we got to the hospital, “right before he fell?”

  I couldn’t speak, but I shook my head. I shook it hard. They took me at my word. Why wouldn’t they? I’d always been a good girl. The doctor rushed after Cody as they wheeled him into the hallway. I wasn’t allowed to follow, but his mama was. I sank down into a seat in the waiting room and remembered coming to this same hospital when I was seven to get my tonsils out, and all the pistachio ice cream they’d let me eat. Except I hated pistachio ice cream and I still had my tonsils. What the hell was happening?